


the way the world turns

by clarnicamhalai



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, Hockey Brings People Together, M/M, Undercover Secret Agents, Worlds 2015, ft Jagr as the omniscient taxi driver, it was meant to be 21 Jump Street meets the Man from UNCLE but it escaped and grew into this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7937491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarnicamhalai/pseuds/clarnicamhalai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worlds hadn't been on the cards for years. In fact, it had been so long that Sid had built himself an entirely separate career. He never expected to make the Canadian roster working for the CSIS, but a job scoping out corruption, extortion, and assassination threats in the NHL finds him on the ice in good company - mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Case File - The Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr chat is good breeding ground for fic ideas; this is 21 Jump Street meets the Man from U.N.C.L.E, with all your favourite hockey players thrown in. PS: I'm using Australian English - you'll find extra 'u's, 's' in lieu of 'z', just so you know. It's too hard to go through and switch them all this time.

The case document finds its way onto Sid’s desk at the start of September.

He’s only just closed his most recent case; had filed away the final report that very morning, anticipating a few days of mind-numbing desk work that would have him itching to be out in the field again, dodging bullets and manoeuvring the svelte, silver Aston Martin – his vehicle of choice – through a busy highway in pursuit of the latest asshole to put the CSIS’s nose out of joint. 

He’s getting into the mindset for some serious paper-pushing when Domi comes out of the boss’s office, making a beeline for Sid. He’s a new guy – young, eager, and attentive. Sid likes his attitude; he’ll go far if he keeps it up.

“New job for you, Crosby,” Domi says as he approaches. He goes to drop the file but hesitates when he takes in the mess that makes up the desk surface.

Sid glances down; his desk is currently inhabited by four empty water bottles, an empty take-out container, an untouched black coffee that Marie from front of house had delivered under her own steam with a flirtatious wink, and enough paper to reprint several copies of Tolstoy’s War and Peace; with a sigh, he shoves them all out of the way in order to create some space. Domi narrowly avoids snorting with amusement and leaves him the file with a half-smile and a shake of the head, like his own desk is any better. It’s not.

Cases all look the same. Whether it’s a job listed as classified, with top level security and a seventeen-man squad, or a low risk, low minute job that can be completed in a single lunch break, they all come in the same beige, foolscap manila folder.

He flips it open.

The first page reveals a face that Sid recognises immediately.

Alexander Ovechkin is, inarguably, the best goal scorer active in the National Hockey League. He’s a cultural icon in his home country of Russia, and Washington fans consider him an international treasure. He’s personable, entertaining, and possessed of a hockey talent that beggars belief. Sid has admired his hockey for years; he’s flashy and a bit too much to handle off the ice, Sid thinks, but the man can certainly play.

Sid’s brow wrinkles as he begins reading through the brief. As he progresses, his eyebrows rise higher and higher. When he gets to the end, he doesn’t make any comments. He just stands and walks over to Gretzky’s office, knocking twice before entering at the director’s okay.

Gretzky looks up at him as soon as the door clicks closed. “Yes, Crosby?”

“I wanted a word about the new case.”

“Is there an issue?”

“Not as such,” Sid says. “Just a question of logistics.”

Gretzky sits back from his desk, loosely clasping his hands together over his lap. “If you’re wondering how we’re going to get you set up to play at Worlds, we’ve already dealt with it. You’re on the roster.” 

Sid stares at him, his expression betraying no hint of his feelings. “The details of how you wrangled that are superfluous, but how exactly is this supposed to work? Hockey fans are going to be suspicious of a player coming out of nowhere. It’s Worlds, they know every player on every team.”

“You’re a rookie playing in Finland; all the documents and articles have been put into circulation already.”

Sid’s not entirely convinced. He knows hockey and he knows hockey fans; they don’t miss a beat, and they certainly don’t miss the trajectory of a player good enough to be selected for Worlds. Gretzky, however, doesn’t look at all concerned.

“And working with the Russians and the Americans?” Sid asks.

“Ovechkin is valuable to many people,” Gretzky says slowly. “Washington are invested in him as a franchise player, and Russia, obviously, want him whole and healthy and available for his national obligations – he’s their greatest ambassador to North America, sporting or otherwise.” 

It’s an honest accolade. Ovechkin has been welcomed into the NHL with open arms, and his flamboyancy and apparent lack of inhibitions have quickly endeared him to a large majority of fans. He’s exciting to watch and his love for Moscow is palpable. As an ambassador, Russia couldn’t have done better.

“We’re not clear yet if the threat is coming from Canada or the US, or if it’s a combined job, but he’s had four reported incidents in the last two weeks, two of which were clear attempts at extortion, and one that was a blatant threat to his safety,” Gretzky summarises. “At best this is a kidnap and ransom attempt; at worst, it’s an assassination. Worlds gives us the perfect opportunity to take out the threat. Working with the CIA and FSB will put agents in three camps and only add to Ovechkin’s protection.” 

He splays his hands wide, a clear what can we do gesture. “Look, Crosby, there are ten guys here that we could’ve picked – it’s Canada, hockey is a national pastime – but I picked you because I know you can handle it.”

Sid makes to reply, but Gretzky silences him with a raised hand.

“I’ve seen your stats from juniors and I do keep an eye on the rec league HR pretend not to run – you’re going to slot right into that team and you’re going to close this case.” The director leans forward again, placing his elbows on the desk. “Now, are we done?”

His tone brooks no further commentary on the matter, so Sid concedes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’ll be meeting with the Russian and American agents on Tuesday; I’ll have the details on your desk tomorrow.”

It’s a clear dismissal.  


Sid excuses himself from the office and calls it a day, heading home with the intention of doing a bit of stickhandling – he’ll need all the practice he can get before his debut at Worlds.

If he googles the roster, it’s just to familiarise himself with his soon to be teammates (the bubble of excitement when he sees his childhood dream, his own name listed under Team Canada, is quickly banished; it’s not the time to dwell on a long-since forgotten future).

++

The meeting is held at a rundown but bustling rink in downtown Vancouver. Sid, as per his instructions, is dressed casually, in athletic wear that he can skate in if necessary. Gretzky himself is absent (duty called, apparently).

It’s easy to spot the Americans. He notices them as soon as he crosses the threshold, attention drawn by their brash, loud discussion. They look young – probably rookies. 

With monumental effort, Sid manages to catch the grimace before it can spread over his face. Domi is one thing, but these kids will be another matter entirely. He feels a bit for their handlers, but at least they won’t be disrupting things in his camp. While he watches, a tall man with steel grey hair and an intense expression interrupts their confab, effectively quelling the discussion; Sid recognises him instantly – he’s the head of the CIA.

Mike Sullivan is a good guy, able to bring out the best in his agents. He’s especially good with young talent, and these kids are certainly that.

To be fair to them, the young agents blend in seamlessly with the rest of the youths hanging around the rink, but Sid notes the little things that signify they may be more than they seem: how they stand, the way they’re keeping an eye on their surroundings and the exits at all times. It takes an agent to know an agent in a scene like this.

Sid makes his way over, nodding to Sullivan as he approaches. He’s dealt with him several times in the pas; he admires the way the American gets things done.

“Crosby,” the older man greets. He tips his head at the three agents beside him. “Agents Hanifin, Eichel, and Larkin.”

Sid shakes hands with each of them, but the small talk is avoided when a loud, laughing voice, thickly accented, cuts through the room.

“America send babies for Worlds, Russia win for sure!”

Sid hasn’t had a great deal to do with the FSB, but he knows about Malkin. 

The Russians call him Zhenya, and he’s big, bold and dangerous. He’s all teeth and smiles right now, loose and laughing at the young agents the US have put forward for the task. If they had feathers or fur, the kids would be all puffed up, indignant at his casual dismissal of their skill. 

His companion, an older, round-faced man, murmurs quietly in Russian and Malkin grins but restrains himself from antagonising the Americans any further. 

“Gentlemen, now that we’re all here, shall we adjourn to somewhere more private for this discussion?” Sullivan interrupts before the rookies can collect themselves enough to react. His voice isn’t loud, but it’s commanding nevertheless.

They end up hijacking the visitors’ locker room, the smell of sweat and damp familiar enough that Sid is more relaxed than he would’ve been out in the open.

Sullivan takes control of the room, easily and unopposed. He has that effect on people.

“I assume you’re all familiar with each other, so we’ll skip the introductions. You are also aware of the ‘why’ causing our organisations to band together,” he says, taking care to look each of the gathered men in the eye, one by one. “Today is all about the ‘how’. Gonchar, you’ve got the floor.”

Malkin’s companion is Sergei Gonchar. He is essentially Malkin’s handler, though his handling is minimal – Malkin works best when has freedom to move as he pleases. It’s never rebellious, though; he always has the primary goal in mind. Gonchar is an enabler; a sounding board; a voice of reason in his ear when things have the potential to take a wrong turn.

He is calm as he talks the three units through the plan their higher ups have signed off on. It’s straightforward enough. 

“Latest information indicates that action will be taken against Ovechkin during Worlds competition,” Gonchar says. “You will infiltrate your respective teams and keep ears and eyes open while scouting the teams and staff. There is an indication that the threat is coming from within one of the teams, but this isn’t confirmed. Your job is to identify and neutralise the threat, from wherever it originates.”

“We expect all of you to work together in this. Ovechkin’s life is in your hands – if we lose him, we lose everything gained between Russia and North America. Don’t let that happen.” Gonchar stares at each of them, expression grave. “You’ll be given the latest gadgets and intel before you make your way to your respective camps. From there, we leave it in your capable hands.”

They close the formal aspect of gathering not long after, leaving the agents to get to know each other. Gonchar tells Malkin to ‘play nice’. The big man pouts before saying in English, for Sid’s benefit, “I’m play nice always.” 

Malkin winks cheekily after that statement and Sid averts his eyes, unsure of a proper response, and makes a show of clearing his throat. He eyes the four other agents as they’re left alone in the locker room. 

“How about a game of shinny, eh? Three on two.” 

He glances over at Malkin again; they can probably handle the three Americans – skill over youth, after all. 

“Trying to get some inside knowledge on Team USA, huh?” Eichel taunts. “I’m in. You won’t know what’s hit you.”

“Yanks –you're all talk,” Sid chirps, sharing a smirk with Malkin. 

Hanifin, handsome and fresh-faced – the All-American boy through and through – pipes up his approval: “Let’s let hockey do the talking today, fellas.”

“Rookies want to play, we play,” Malkin laughs, herding them all towards the door. “Let ‘old men’ show how is done.”

 

(They do).

++

Sid flies out to Prague in business class.

It’s not even a work perk; he hates economy, being pressed up against strangers for such a long stretch. He knows it’s a fickle thing, especially considering his job (he’s been pressed up against more strangers that are trying to kill him than partners he’s taken to bed and not been bothered by their proximity, but being that close to regular people – who aren’t being awful on purpose but still somehow manage to drive him up the wall – well, that’s his own little personal hell. It’s one thing for someone to actively try and kill him, but another matter entirely when they aren’t even doing it on purpose).

So he takes the luxury when he can, orders a strawberry daiquiri, and in no time at all (after what felt like a five-minute nap) they’re descending.

He’s standing at the carousel when his skin prickles. He’s being watched; like most agents, he’s developed something of a sixth sense when it comes to being on other people’s radars. 

Noting that his bags have just broken through the rubber flaps, Sid turns slowly in the hopes he can diffuse things quickly; he needn’t have worried.

It’s just Malkin.

The Russian is standing near the doors, a good thirty feet away. He grins broadly when Sid meets his gaze.

Manoeuvring so he doesn’t elbow the lady beside him-

“Sorry,” Sid says through a wince, as the kit bag and sticks narrowly misses taking out her left knee.

He manages to extricate both bags without drawing blood and makes his way unhurriedly over to his fellow agent.

“Long time, no see,” he says wryly as he bridges the distance between them. Malkin offers a hand to shake and gestures at the larger of the bags, offering his assistance. “I’ve got it, but thanks.”

“No problem. Gonch said flights land close together, so better to share taxi. Okay?”

“Sure,” Sid agrees. One less thing to organise.

“Call me Geno,” Malkin tosses over his shoulder, leading the way to the cab rank and his pile of belongings. “We colleagues for now.”

Their driver is an older man, his hair untouched by silver, though the five o’clock shadow is well and truly salt and pepper. The hair is a little longer, beginning to suggest a mullet and his accent is thick and lyrical. He turns to them as they clamber into the vehicle, revealing a wide smile and big, square teeth.

“Player hotel?” he asks, hooking an arm over the front seat as he turns. “You have hockey written all over you.”

Malkin snorts. “Sticks not give any hint at all.”

The taxi driver is full of conversation; eager to discuss the merits of each team, but confidently exclaiming that the Czechs will win. After much argument, the three of them agree to disagree, since Geno won’t hear a word on Russia coming anything less than first, and Sid knows objectively that Canada have the strongest team. It makes the time pass quickly and they soon pull up in front of the hotel.

As they haul their gear out onto the sidewalk, the driver calls out, waving a couple of business cards erratically at them, “Gentlemen, my card. You need a ride, just let Jaro know. Anything for hockey!”

He speeds off as they march up the stairs to the foyer, signing in and parting ways on the fourth floor, where the rest of Sid’s team are set up. He’s been directed to meet with the coach first up, so he heads to room 427 and knocks.

McLellan is waiting for him.

“Come in, Crosby. Take a seat.” He gestures to the tiny desk with two chairs perched in front of it. “I have to say, I was surprised to see your name on the roster,” McLellan says slowly, following him across the room. “That said, having looked at your stats, I’m less shocked at the inclusion. You’ve not been on the North American radar, but your skill is undeniable. We’re looking forward to having you on the team and contributing.”

“I’m glad to be here; I want to contribute to Canada’s campaign. It’s a good team; strong across the ice.”

“I appreciate that, Crosby,” McLellan says, all smiles. “We’ve got you rooming with Giroux, since he’s captain. Thought it might make things easier. Go get comfortable. We’ll see you for morning skate tomorrow. We’re hoping to slot you onto one of our starting lines. There are a couple of guys who I think your game will gel nicely with on the ice.”

“Thanks, coach.”

“See you on the ice, Crosby. Get some sleep.”


	2. Reconnaissance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconnaissance and research gathering is always the first step of any mission.

It’s two in the morning and Giroux is going to be a problem.

Sid is lying still in his bed. He probably looks asleep, but his head is whirring. 

Giroux had made no secret of his feelings on Sid’s inclusion on the roster. Within a few seconds of Sid entering the room, Giroux had spat a dozen names that he felt deserved the spot more than Sid, explained that he wasn’t going to hold his hand for the entire tournament, and that, in his humble opinion, the coaching staff had made a giant clusterfuck by including Sid in the team. 

Not the most auspicious start.

It is understandable, in a way. Why wouldn’t he be wary and suspicious of a player that he’s never heard of who is suddenly, somehow, good enough for Worlds? After all, Sid think, he had poised the very same question to Gretzky the day the case had been assigned.

Nevertheless, it is what it is, and it means that Sid needs to be particularly careful. If Claude is going to be watching him like a hawk the entire time, there is no room for error. In itself, that is no hurdle – Sid knows his focus is second to none – but it means that he needs to make sure Malkin – Geno, he corrects himself – and the Americans don’t fuck up his cover by accident. He can’t afford for Giroux to see him ‘fraternising with the enemy’. Not when he’s already mistrusting of Sid’s inclusion in the team.

Sid mulls over his options for a while before circling to a conclusion.

Ultimately, he needs to win Giroux over. The only way that is going to happen is through hockey, and for hockey he needs to be at his best. Time to sleep on it.

With a sigh, Sid rolls over onto his side, closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

++++

The first practice starts early and runs late, and if Giroux is remotely impressed with his new teammate’s skill with the puck he keeps it well hidden. He is coldly civil, though doesn’t go as far as ignoring him on the ice. The coaches aren’t blind; they’ll notice segregation, especially in play, and Giroux has the ‘C’, after all.

Sid feels freer on the ice. Hockey has a way of uniting Canadians like nothing else on earth, and it isn’t long before he’s chirping and being chirped by the rest of the team like he’s been there for years. Unsurprisingly, the majority of the heckles highlight the size of his ass and his air of mystery. 

The team is a mix of veterans and young blood, and a few are open in their mistrust of the coaching staff’s decision, but Sid’s deft hands and strong defence of the puck slowly but surely shuts them up.

During the training session, Sid scopes out the arena they’re training in; he watches the staffers wandering around the rink, checks the exits and the jumbotron. He’s due to talk with the CSIS tech team after training to go through some of the gadgets they’ve brought in for him. New toys aren’t his favourite part of the job, but he needs to know how to use them. He prefers an old fashioned approach most of the time– 

A spray of ice coats him in shavings and forces him to whip his eyes back to ground level. He shouldn’t allow himself to get distracted like that; on any other job it could kill him.

“Fancier than any rink you’ve ever played in, I bet,” Brayden Schenn chirps once he comes to a complete stop. “Come on, Crosby, you’re almost up.” Sid leaves his cataloguing of the arena behind, focusing instead on his team.

Training takes up most of the morning, and Giroux disappears into a media scrum for half an hour after the team shower, but eventually the pair of them trundle into their shared room, wired from the day’s activities rather than exhausted. Sid is determined to make a mental map of the hotel before he makes contact with his tech team, and he is just about to open the door when Giroux’s voice stops him.

“At least you’re not an embarrassment.”

Giroux is watching him with a curious expression. His eyes are hard, hawk-like in their intensity, until the red headed man turns away, depositing himself in his bed, attention redirected to the television set. Sid’s being dismissed, but Giroux’s admission feels a little like a victory.

“We don’t have to like each other; we just have to play together. Latvia can be my trial; until then, Giroux, you mind your business and I’ll mind mine.”

Sid is out the door before his captain can respond.

Before he left Canadian soil, Domi had deposited Sid’s initial instructions on the mass of papers that made up the surface of his desk. They were straightforward enough: arrive in Prague; slot seamlessly into the team; keep an eye out for suspicious activity; contact tech; meet with the other agents to share intel; protect Ovechkin at all costs; and, ultimately, take out their quarry without causing an international incident.

Sounds simple enough. Of course, it almost never goes to plan.

Sid pauses in the hallway, checking that it’s clear before walking quickly to the end of the corridor. He turns left, then left again, then takes a sharp right. There’s a locked door ahead, a security camera focused intently on it. He waits two breaths as the camera slowly turns to face the wall. The red light changes to a pinpoint of green. Sid takes the signal for what it is and moves cautiously forward, cracking the door just enough to slip inside. As it closes behind him, the red returns.

The room beyond the door contains a stairway that he follows all the way to the roof. The door clicks closed as he steps outside. His position is central and he’s alone. The area is mostly empty, bar the funnels and vents releasing steam and hot air. Sid wends his way to the left, where there’s a single metal box, two metres long, lined up against the wall. It doesn’t have a lock, though there’s a miniscule fingerprint recognition on one corner. He touches it lightly with a forefinger.

There’s a faint click. Sid lifts the lid, revealing a backpack with a tiny earpiece resting on top. It’s emblazoned with Team Canada and looks as official as the one Giroux has next to his bed, courtesy of the merchandising team.

He doesn’t waste time checking the contents; he knows he’ll be missed if he’s away too long, so Sid slips the earpiece into place, shoulders the backpack and retreats back the way he came. As he descends the stairs and gets to the first door, a voice pipes up, quiet, but clear as a bell, almost as if it’s inside his own head: “Hold for a moment, Crosby – two civilians outside. Three, two… one. Clear.”

Sid smiles.

It’s Pascal. He’s one of Sid’s favourite handlers. He doesn’t often need them, but when it’s required there are few that he enjoys having in his ear as much as Pascal Dupuis.

“Super Duper,” Sid murmurs. “Good to hear from you, buddy. You gonna look out for me on this case?”

“You know it. Not that there’s much for me to do; you’re the best agent we have. It’ll be cruisey at my end.”

Sid grins and takes a confident stride, heading back to his room.

Giroux is still on his bed, watching the television with unnatural focus. He doesn’t turn his attention away as Sid enters, so Sid ignores him and steps into the bathroom to go through the bag in solitude, lest it prompt any unwanted interest from his captain.

The zip runs smoothly and Sid pulls the two sides of the bag apart to reveal the contents; he places each item onto the counter once he extricates it from the backpack. One is a standard issue set of contact lenses that can transmit his vision to his handler. He puts them in immediately and looks at the array of hockey paraphernalia and other things before him.

“Okay, Duper, tell me what we’ve got,” Sid says quietly, careful not to draw his roommate’s attention.

“Alright, vision is working. Nice get up, Crosby,” Duper says appreciatively. “Canada looks good on you. You’re the hero this country needs.” 

“Equipment rundown, Duper, let’s go,” Sid prompts, raising an eyebrow at his reflection so Duper can see it. “I’ve got team dinner in half an hour.”

“Fine, fine. Okay. Starting from the left,” says the voice in his ear. “The neat little marker pen is a stun gun, close range only. Also works as a pen if you need to autograph any merch, which, if you play like you did at Mackinnon’s last week, is almost a certainty.” Duper sounds amused. “The tape is bulletproof and fireproof, can withstand extreme temperatures, including explosions, and insulate against the cold (helpful if you have time to construct a blanket out of it before things get hairy). Hopefully it’ll remain a nice piece of trivia and doesn’t get tested over the duration of this case.”

“I’ll try and avoid it,” Sid says wryly.

“I’m holding you to that,” Duper tells him. “Now, the deodorant. Don’t spray it on yourself, for the love of god, it can melt through metal in under seven seconds, you don’t want to see what it does to your skin.” 

“And they though deodorant was the best aerosol to use? Tell them to think it through more next time.”

“I’ll pass your feedback on to HR – I had the exact same reaction.”

Sid runs his hands along the bench, stopping in front of another item, a shiny, silver watch.

“What about the watch?”

“That’s a beauty. Multiple uses, including: laser cutter, magnetic function, ability to throw out electromagnetic pulses, GPS, and has an extraordinarily fine steel rope that can hold weight up to six hundred kilos.”

“Nice.” 

“Tell me about it,” Duper agrees. “I want one for myself. I told them they could customise and lose the laser cutter – all I need is the GPS. But it’s a nice watch, eh? Now for your favourite. The sunglasses. They have night vision.”

Sid looks directly into the mirror, expression incredulous. “Again? They always do that; nobody wears sunglasses at night. They’ve got to work out something better. You can put that one through to HR. Tech are supposed to make me more efficient, not more obvious.”

“I think the saying is ‘don’t fix what isn’t broken’. Which is hilarious when you consider how updated tech are with literally everything else in their database. I think they just enjoy the old school appeal of the night vision glasses; it has a certain je ne sais quoi.”

“You suck, Duper.”

“You don’t mean it; you love me.”

“I do. But tell tech that they do actually suck. Sunglasses at night is ridiculous.”

“Will do. Now, make sure the necessary equipment goes into your kit bag; I’m logging off for now. Watch has a call signal if you need assistance; we’ll be listening for you. Now, go play some hockey.”

“No game tonight.”

“Whatever, man. Kick Latvia’s butt tomorrow. Enjoy your team dinner; you’re playing hockey with the elite. Not everyone gets that kind of opportunity. Relish it, bud.”

++++

Dinner at a local Italian restaurant is uneventful, bar the enlightening discussion between PK Subban and Tyler Seguin about how the Americans almost had a punch up amongst their own team. Sid guesses the parties involved before they’re named, and has to actively avoid crashing his head onto the table in frustration.

The young agents aren’t settling into their national team as well as he and Geno.

At least, Sid assumes Geno is settling in well. He hasn’t heard anything from the Russian, and anticipates that this lack of communication is a case of ‘no news is good news’. He’s quietly hopeful. Malkin is extraordinarily competent, after all.

Sid is sitting beside Brayden Schenn, because in the last twelve hours the Flyer has made it his personal duty to look out for the new guy. Wherever he goes, Schenn is there, keeping an eye on him and making sure he isn’t left behind or alone. It’s nice, from a social perspective, but a pain in the ass when Sid is trying to work. Giroux is on Schenn’s other side, quietly ignoring Sid even while he laughs and jests with the rest of the team. 

PK is on Sid’s right. He’s a good guy. Not that Sid had ever thought otherwise. He’s genuine; what you see is what you get. Sid likes him a lot. For all his flashy clothes and loudness, he’s steady as a rock.

“So, Sid,” PK asks, returning from his conversation with Seguin. “What’s Finland like?”

Sid looks up from his food. “Cold,” he says coyly, knowing it won’t be enough. He’s been to Finland. Twice. Both in the line of duty; there wasn’t much sightseeing to be done.

“Yeah, sure,” PK says, rolling his eyes. “But your team, the vibe, what’s it like over there?”

Another voice, familiar though unexpected, interrupts before Sid can respond.

“Best. Better than you guys. Not so much lazy hands.”

Geno has a huge grin on his face, like riling up Canadians is his favourite pastime. It probably is right now. He reaches one of his big paws down over Sid’s should to pat the front of his chest. “Is true, no? More special than NHL, being in team with us.” He’s grinning like the Cheshire cat, enjoying hurling his spanner into Sid’s carefully concocted story.

“It has its perks,” Sid concedes with a small smile. 

Geno waves someone over, shouting in Russian. 

It’s Ovechkin.

“Sasha is wanting to meet you,” Geno explains, sotto voce, as the Russian captain makes his way over. “Knows we play together. Hear me say very flattering things about Sid hockey. Wants tips from best.” He winks.

Schenn and PK, along with several other Canadian players, are watching the exchange with interest. Giroux is staring at Sid.

“Who’s your friend,” PK asks, jovial as usual.

Geno introduces himself, adding in a friendly tone, “You all know my name once Russia beat you.”

“Good Canadians,” Ovechkin calls loudly as he nears them. “All eating together. Such team spirit.” He looks none the worse for wear, considering the threat posed to him, and bears an expression of great amusement. He looks oddly benevolent, like a father observing his beloved children. Sid chances a look at Geno; they meet eyes for a moment and Geno shrugs, as if to say, that’s Ovechkin.

That Ovechkin, alright. It seems his vivaciousness isn’t a show, or if it is it’s one he revels in constantly. Ovechkin’s eyes light up as they land on Sid.

“Sidney Crosby. Mystical Canadian! Nice to meet you. Still not sure how I miss so many talents – we are almost same age. Where did you hide all these years? Under rocks? Must be from secret club.”

“Something like that,” Sid replies, firmly shaking the hand Ovechkin proffers.

“If secret club help Russia win, is okay with me,” Ovechkin tells him, winking conspiratorially at his teammate. Geno grins. “Have fun with Latvia; we look forward to Canada game. Will see what Crosby made of then. Now, we have people to meet; come on, Zhenya.”

Sid glances at Geno questioningly, but Geno just smiles wider, eyes crinkling; in this case, ‘people’ is just more teammates. Geno is relaxed so Sid leaves them to it.

The rest of the evening passes quickly and Sid is soon sleeping, preparing for Latvia and any other threats that may appear tomorrow. What a life he’s leading at the moment.

++++

Sid doesn’t play as many minutes as some of the others. He’s not here for hockey, so it doesn’t irk him, really. He keeps his ears open and relishes the sound of the crowd (he’s used to his work being overlooked; he isn’t supposed to cause scenes, so this is a big change. It’s kind of a thrill, truth be told).

At one point, he’s on the ice with Giroux and they make some truly magical hockey happen, but there’s still a wall up between him and the captain; he’s not proven to Giroux that he should be here yet. Sid pushes back the thin veil of disappointment as Giroux skates away from him, skipping a celly for the assist.

They demolish the Latvians, as expected, and as Sid trails his teammates to the locker room he sees a trainer, one of the many hangers on of the Canadian Team, talking in hushed, uneasy tones; his audience is a short, twitchy man with a baseball cap pulled low over his face. 

It draws Sid’s attention.

He slows, stepping to the side and bending down as if to retie his laces. He quietly drops his stick to the ground and plays around with his skates, unheeded by the two men.

“Timing isn’t right, Bobby,” the trainer is saying. “It won’t work.”

“If not now, when? The spotlight will only increase the further into the competition they get. He-” The smaller man stops short, catching sight of Sid. He hesitates, and Sid makes a show of fixing his laces and standing, tipping his stick at them in greeting before continuing down the tunnel as though he didn’t hear their conversation at all. 

It’s something.


End file.
